He twirled his silver microphone, rolling it between his fingers before placing a hand against his ear. "Go on, kid. Tell me how you're feeling!"
Nothing.
Randalp opened his mouth, but no words came out.
The Crafter snapped his fingers. "Oh, right! That whole silent audience thing. Let's fix that for our contestant!"
A pulse of energy rippled through the air, and Randalp gasped slightly as his voice suddenly worked again. He looked stunned, clearly uncomfortable being singled out in front of everyone.
"…I just want to get through this."
The Announcer laughed. "Oh, we've got a real talker here, huh? Military and you don't have a single war cry for me?"
Randalp clenched his jaw but said nothing.
His Ikona flickered beside him—a floating construct of layered, shifting plates surrounding a single glowing core. The plates pulsed every few seconds, their movement slow and rhythmic, like breathing.
